Paris sat there, hand clutching her chest like that could somehow keep her heart from bursting clean out. Shock had her frozen. Yeah, she'd seen him fuck people up before—watched him stomp a dude out 'til his skull damn near caved in, saw him slice a man's tongue straight out his mouth, even stood there when he put a bullet in somebody's head and painted the walls with their thoughts. But this? This was somethin' else.
She had never seen that before. Never seen a man shove his bare hand into somebody's chest like it was nothin'—like ribs and flesh ain't even matter—and pull out an organ like he was pickin' fruit off a tree. That shit wasn't human. And if he could do that to them, what the hell could he do to her?
Her hand stayed right over her heart, like she was makin' sure it was still there, still beatin'. The room was dead quiet now. Empty, except for the two bodies on the floor—Anthony and Tony, both laid out like trash that just got taken out. Eyes open, blank, like they was still tryna understand what the hell happened in their last seconds. The horrors they had witnessed in their final moments.
Then Jessica's voice cut through the thick air behind her, calm, cold, like this was just another Tuesday.
"Dom's gonna take you home. Shane said he'll be there in about an hour."
Nodding, Paris took one last look at the lifeless bodies in the room and walked out.
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Dom dropped Paris off at the penthouse while the others stayed behind at the Round Table. She never saw Shane again after he walked out of that room. Dom had shown up not long after, expression unreadable, voice flat.
"I'm takin' you home."
No explanations. No discussion. That was that.
Now, the soft glow of the holographic clock cast shifting numbers against the wall—3:28 AM. The room was quiet, still heavy with the kind of silence that follows bad nights. Then, the distant rush of water stirred the air, the steady patter of the shower shutting off in the bathroom.
Paris blinked against the pull of exhaustion, her body too drained to fully wake up, but her mind wouldn't let her rest. Through half-lidded eyes, she caught a blurry glimpse of Shane. He moved like a shadow, smooth, controlled—there, then gone.
She barely had time to process before she saw him lift their son from the bed, arms steady, movements careful. He didn't say a word. Just turned and disappeared through the doorway, leaving the space colder than before.
When he came back, Paris was awake. Sitting up now, arms crossed over her chest, sleep still clinging to her voice but not enough to smother the attitude.
"I told you to start makin' him fall asleep in his own bed," Shane said, his tone calm, but that didn't mean shit.
"And I told you no," Paris shot back. "Not like you're here most nights to fall asleep with me anyway."
Darkness swallowed the room, but Paris didn't need light to feel the weight of his stare. It was sharp, cutting, a blade pressed against the space between them. The kind of silence that meant there were things he wanted to say but wouldn't—things she wanted to hear but didn't dare ask for.
Unspoken words hung in the air like ghosts.
Without breaking eye contact, Shane grabbed the thick comforter draped over her body and tossed it aside, revealing her beneath the faint glow of New York's skyline spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city pulsed below them, a restless sea of lights and movement, but in this room, only the tension between them existed.
